


The Silken Rose

by snowyfoxpaws



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Depression, Drinking, Love Confessions, M/M, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowyfoxpaws/pseuds/snowyfoxpaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that the red string of fate ties you to your soul mate. England's thread leads to America, therefore it must be wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story originally posted on Hetalia Kink Meme [at Dreamwidth](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/78769.html?thread=511223729#cmt511223729).

England was depressed.  
  
It wasn't a good state of affairs, but it was  _his_  state of affairs. After hundreds of years of hope and despair, he had begun to doubt himself. America was  _meant_  for him-- he could  _see_  it. Every day they spoke he could  _see_  the glimmer of a thread between them, a rose red color that he had a particular fondness for...  
  
It hadn't been there at first... but as America grew into a fine, young colony, England had become more and more aware of the faint bit of thread that he could see wrapped gently around the smallest finger of his right hand. And he had had no idea what it meant.  
  
His faeries knew, however, and it was then that England learned that America was, supposedly,  _his soul mate_. He only got one, he had been informed. And it was never wrong.  
  
Now, years upon years later, he was pretty  _bloody_  sure it  _was_  wrong.  
  
Still, that didn't make the pain of it all hurt any less.  
  
Meeting after meeting he had to bear America laughing at him, calling him names and making fun of him. It had made him so livid that he could do that to him-- that America could willfully make him the laughingstock of the assembly without a second thought.  
  
And then, after a particularly terrible meeting, England had hit a wall.  
  
The string was wrong.  
  
This was defeat.  
  
It hurt, but there was no hope left. The string had to be wrong. That's all there was to it. It was a cruel, sick joke and the feelings he harbored for the other nation were unrequited.  
  
This was defeat.  
  
So he lost the will to fight.  
  
He went to meetings but he just silently took the abuse. It didn't matter what America said anymore. It didn't matter what France muttered or what China accused-- who was he trying to impress? He didn't  _have_  a reputation to protect. Why care anymore? So he stopped caring. Okay, so he was an old man, couldn't cook, didn't have any friends, and was a raging alcoholic. America was right. Why should he care to fight it? What did it matter anymore?  
  
It had been six months and three meetings since he had given up and somehow he felt a sense of... relief.  
  
It was slightly distressing, but it made him feel strangely...  _light_  to not care anymore. Why care about anything, really? Most nights he didn't even have the urge to drink anymore, but he still did it anyway. There was nothing else to do to pass the time.  
  
So it was a start to hear someone knocking enthusiastically at his front door at ten at night and he stared up into the open air incredulously from where he had been curled up on the floor in front of the television with his best ale. Confused, and more than a little drunk, he wobbled his way to the foyer and pulled open the door without thinking to check who was outside first.  
  
America.  
  
It was America.  
  
England began to think that this was another one of his hallucinations, but the boy was saying something and he was hardly listening until that winning smile started to slip into something less obnoxious and those Hollywood features turned a somber look on him.  
  
"... England, are you alright?"  
  
This wasn't happening. This was a nightmare sent here to haunt him. He simply shut the door and began for his living room again, only slightly aware of the sound of the front door opening again. He sunk back down onto the floor and continued watching the rubbish flickering on Channel 4.  
  
At some point he became aware of America standing in the doorway but the other nation didn't say anything so he just took a pointed sip of his drink and ignored him. Eventually this phantom would leave him and he would either pass out or wake up-- whichever it took to make thoughts of America leave his head.  
  
It ended up being the former as, after an hour or two, the alcohol gave way to darkness and sweet, sweet sleep.  
  
Unbeknownst to him, he was gathered up by America and placed in his own bed, the younger nation watching him lie there with a troubled expression before he went to go clean up the beer cans, the pints and, hell, the whole house really.


	2. Chapter 2

England woke, distressingly, to the smell of food.   
  
He jerked awake, bleary-eyed and hung over, only to notice some pain killers left out on the bedside with a glass of water. He took both eagerly, but the pungent smell of cooked meat still sat heavily in the air and England just stared at the doorway blankly, wondering if he should even bother with an investigation.  
  
And then a figure appeared within it.  
  
"Oh great, you're awake!" America said, grinning from ear to ear as he carried in a tray of food.  
  
Now England was very,  _very_  distressed and more than a little confused. He began to get up but America put a hand on his chest and pressed gently to get him to back down.  
  
"I brought you breakfast in bed. Kinda ruins the point if you get up." America said cheerfully, placing the tray over England's lap.  
  
It was a rather extraordinary spread of food: egg, sausage, pancakes, bacon, and some grimy liquid that looked like tea. He stared down at it, a million questions whirring around in his head as he chose to utter the most useless of them all, "How am I supposed to eat all of this...?"  
  
America just laughed, the noise slightly grating. "I'll have your leftovers, 'kay?" He said, giving a reassuring wink that made England's chest flutter even as his heart sank. "Just come down when you're done!" And with that the younger nation was out the door again, off doing god know's what.  
  
England stared at the food, slightly nauseated, but the grease really did appeal to his aching, hungover stomach and he started in on the egg and sausage. Despite his hunger, however, it just felt... difficult to eat. He had no motivation for it. He managed half a sunny side egg, a sausage, and a few bites of pancake before he simply resigned himself to the tea, which turned out to be not as bad as it looked if a little over sweet.  
  
Pushing the tray off his lap and onto the bed, he made for the washroom. It was probably best he shower since he had a  _guest_  and all, somehow, so he started the hot water and gave himself a halfhearted rinse before exiting the room in a towel in order to gather his clothing.  
  
He hadn't quite expected America to be standing there, staring down at the food tray, but there he was. It looked as though the nation had wanted to say something, but he stopped upon seeing him.  
  
England gave him a slightly blank look as he adjusted the towel around his waist.  
  
"Um... Why are you naked?" The other nation asked.  
  
Now England was distinctly annoyed, "I took a shower."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"... And I would very much like to get dressed now."  
  
America jolted slightly, as though he hadn't quite put that together prior, and nodded his head in a strange jerking motion. "O- oh yeah, uh, take your time! I'll be downstairs!" And with that he retreated, taking the food tray with him.  
  
England sighed and shut the door. America was here... He wasn't sure  _why_ , but that was neither here nor there. America wasn't predictable. He simply  _didn't make sense_. And that was exactly why he was so annoying.  
  
A glimmer caught his eye and he frowned, twisting his hand a little and watching as the thread shimmered from where it was tied loosely around his finger. A sinking feeling of heartache gnawed at him. With America so close at hand, the thread was much more visible now...  
  
He clenched his hand, fighting back a turbulence of emotions.  
  
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he began to get dressed. A nice pair of casual slacks, a button up shirt, and... a jumper, simply because it was a little nippy this late into Autumn. Odd. America usually turned the heat on high whenever he visited. Perhaps he had forgotten to?  
  
Well, whatever the reason, he was grateful. Damn git always drove his bill through the roof. Maybe he had finally learned to just put on something rather than waste money.  
  
Steeling himself, he went downstairs and found his uninvited house guest sitting at the dining room table with not only his leftovers, but another meal entirely. He was mid-sip when England spied him and he quickly set down the coffee mug in order to shoot him another one of those one hundred watt smiles.  
  
England was having none of it, "Whatever you want, the answer is no. Go home." He said, already starting another cup of tea. This time it would be proper.  
  
America looked slightly defensive, "Who said I wanted anything?"  
  
"Breakfast in bed...?" England said, exasperated. "You haven't done anything like that since you were a colony. You  _want_  something. Spit it out already." Perhaps his hangover was making him a little edgy, but he really wasn't in the mood for America's games.  
  
And that bloody thread between them was translucent now, a little mocking reminder of what he wanted but couldn't have. It didn't matter what he put in his tea now-- it would undoubtedly taste sour.  
  
The younger nation was pouting slightly, but finally he rolled his shoulders and admitted, "I want you to let me stay here."  
  
England just looked at him, skeptical. "Why?"  
  
America was on his feet, all smiles and honey wheat hair and a very slight tan, "Oh,  _c'mon_  England. I know your schedule isn't busy-- I asked your boss. How about you and I hang out a little? We haven't done that in  _years_."  
  
England was rather certain they hadn't done that  _ever_ , but instead he turned to his electric kettle as he shook his head. "No. Go home." He blinked, looking around.  
  
"Awww, c'mon England,  _pleas_ \--,"  
  
"Did you... do the dishes...?" The elder nation said slowly, brow furrowing.  
  
America was looking at him with puppy dog eyes and this little annoying smile that was some kind of mix between embarrassed and pleased, "Yeah, I did..."  
  
England looked back at the empty sink, feeling his resolve slip. "I... suppose you can stay... for a couple days..." He relented. Now that he was looking, a lot of things were far cleaner than how he had left them. And there were some fresh flowers sitting in the vase on the windowsill...  
  
Lilacs.  
  
"Yes!" America cheered to himself, "You won't regret this, I promise!"  
  
A spark of hope jumped up in his chest and he quickly squashed it, feeling bitterness take its place.   
  
Of course America would make a promise like that.  
  
He always broke them.


	3. Chapter 3

After making his tea, England retreated to his office in order to look through any emails his boss might have sent him. There were a few missed calls on his cell as well, which he checked with a bit of reluctance.  
  
The first was his boss, the second his own personal secretary...  
  
And the third...  
  
 _'Hey England, I know you don't like surprises but,'_  America's voice rang through, the soft sound of a car in the background,  _'I was on my way to this meeting, y'see, and, well, it's cancelled, so I'm in London now and I'm just going to head over to your house, alright? Call me back. We can hang out and stuff!'_  And then there was a click.  
  
England checked the time he had received the message, frowning as the it read just after nine at night. Last night he had started in on drinking just after seven, so by the time America had gotten here he was likely incredibly intoxicated. That explained, at the very least, why he couldn't remember any of it.  
  
So he was just a convenient backup plan for America's travel, was he? Of course. Why on earth would he come here  _on purpose_ , after all? With his economy the way it was, it made sense to save a little money by simply lodging here.  
  
Sighing, England turned off the phone and put it in a drawer, resting his head in his arms on his desk. His chest was aching with that familiar sensation it always did when the younger nation called him old or made fun of his cooking. He hated this. He thought he was done with all of this, but no-- it was America's fucking  _mission_  to make sure he fell like shite, wasn't it?  
  
He jerked the drawer of his desk open again, finding some more pain killers he had stashed inside and taking two more of them along with his tea. The headache he was forming due to all of this was raking across his mind like claws.  
  
God, what he wouldn't give for a drink right about now.  
  
A soft knock came at his office door and he glowered at it for a moment before sighing deeply and giving an exasperated, "Yes...?"  
  
America opened the door, peering inside curiously before his face broke into a sheepish grin. "So, uh, I know you're a workaholic and all but I thought we could, y'know,  _hang out_  and stuff. Like I said, I already talked to your boss. He said it was cool if you just relaxed for a few days, so I thought--,"  
  
"You thought I would want to spend that time with  _you_. Yes, I know. Clearly you haven't thought this through, have you? I'm not interested in visiting every McDonald's in the country or watching some trite American film you've brought with you or whatever else you thought I might enjoy." England said, unable to stop himself as his sharp tongue ripped into the other nation. "So perhaps you might benefit from taking some time to consider the burden you've placed upon me by lodging yourself here and in that time I hope you realize just how utterly selfish you're being."  
  
The other nation was standing there staring at him, eyes wide and a little hurt as his expression contorted into one of remorse. "Oh, I... um, I just..." America fidgeted, looking like a kicked puppy, and England couldn't help but feel a wrenching twist in his chest where his heart supposedly was. Christ, what had he done...? "I thought we could... visit some of your historical landmarks... like castles and stuff..."  
  
The wrenching in his chest twisted tenfold.  
  
America turned to leave, "I'll just, uh... go. Sorry..."  
  
"Wait!" England said, standing up so suddenly his chair had rolled back slightly from the force. America hesitated, looking at him with what was obviously a brief spark of hope. The elder nation swallowed. "I... ah..." He straightened, unable to will his lips to issue an apology. "Castles sound nice, actually... There are a couple local ones I haven't been to in ages... so I could show them to you, I suppose..."  
  
America's face lit up as though England had announced that it was Christmas. "Great! I'll go make us some sandwiches and stuff, then." He said, giddy as he nearly bounced out of the room. He even called back, "You get ready too!"  
  
What the hell was going on. England rubbed his temples and resisted the urge to sink back down into his chair again. America had always complained that his history was  _boring_ , so why the sudden change in attitude now? What was he playing at?  
  
This was exactly why he couldn't be around the other nation. Every time England thought he understood him, America went and did something that turned the world on its head.


	4. Chapter 4

Their little day trip had gone, to England's complete surprise, swimmingly well.  
  
They visited a few local landmarks and he toured him around two near castles. America had  _seemed_  interested in all that he had to say, which was unusual but refreshing. And then they ate sandwiches by a lakeside where the younger nation had given the ducks a nibble at his bread. And, at the end of it all, when the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky and the breeze was turning from pleasant to cool, America suggested eating a nice dinner and England had thought, well why not?  
  
Moreover, America had asked him where  _he_  wanted to eat rather than suggesting his own ideas and, when England had told him, the other nation had merely said that it sounded good and accepted the idea with no fuss.  
  
At this point, he was pretty certain he had every right to be suspicious.  
  
They were sat a table, the lulling mood of the restaurant giving off an energetic but relaxed vibe as the hum of patrons filled empty air. America was looking down at his menu with an expression of concentration and England was lost in thought, trying to figure out the best way to confront the younger man.  
  
A waiter approached them and America ordered a glass of wine while he, himself, asked for a different vintage. It would be uncouth to drink hard liquor with his dinner, despite the pang in his chest that yearned for gin.  
  
Staring down at the table, England could, just for a single moment, imagine that things were going well between them.  
  
And then he spied the faint glimmer of red that tied them together and his mood turned slightly sour.  
  
"Am-- _Alfred_." He corrected himself, acknowledging their public location. His brow furrowed and his back felt stiff as he said, "Are you... somehow in need of money?" The words were weighted down with implication that wasn't lost on the other nation.  
  
"Money? What? No." America said, frowning himself. "Why would you ask something like that?"  
  
England straightened and folded his hands on the table. "Look, you've been very nice today... and I don't say that lightly. You are  _going out of your way_  to  _be_  nice. You thought I couldn't tell?"  
  
America had a guilty look on his face and England felt a flash of triumph. Caught. Now he would hear whatever it was that the nation had wanted of him, thus confirming his suspicion that this was all some elaborate ruse. "I..." America began, struggling for words. "I guess I... I'm just  _worried_ , En-- _Arthur_."  
  
" _Worried_?" England echoed, a nipping of confusion at his mind.  
  
America rolled his shoulders in a shrug before finally leveling him with a wary look. "You've been different lately." He said, voice so painfully soft that England had to lean forward to hear it. "You're quiet. You... You've been drinking  _a lot_..."  
  
Pity.  
  
That's why America was here.  
  
England fell back in his chair, his chest feeling both heavy and light as his feelings warred against each other. "So you feel sorry for me..." He said bitterly. "Look, I understand that you all think I'm pathetic but I don't want your pity--,"  
  
"We don't."  
  
"Pardon?" England said, arching a brow.  
  
America faltered, swallowed, and the looked at him. "We don't think you're pathetic." He said, each word level and even as though he wanted to make sure England heard every syllable. "We miss you-- the  _old_  you..."  
  
This wasn't quite what he had expected. "Who's we?" He asked suspiciously.  
  
"You know...  _Us_..." America said pointedly, eyes darting to the patrons of the restaurant. "It's not just me."  
  
Now England felt weary, the weight of the world suddenly sagging on his shoulders as he tried to really, thoroughly look at this situation. "I don't need you to worry about me." He said, his voice hollow.  
  
America looked dubious but said nothing even as his lips twitched into a noticeable frown.  
  
At that moment a server came and England took the wine glass with fervor, knocking back the contents in a single, fell go before handing the glass back and giving the man a short, "Another please." The server looked baffled but set down America's glass and dashed off to do as he was told.  
  
America was staring at him as though he had three heads.  
  
"What?" England said, perhaps just a touch too defensively.  
  
"You have a problem, Arthur..." America said, but it wasn't a jab. It was as though the other nation were admitting it aloud as his own personal confession.  
  
"I'm an  _old man_..." He said dryly. "Can I not drink?"  
  
America just shook his head and took his own glass in hand, sipping the contents for a moment before putting the glass down. There was a dull, dark look in those eyes and they reminded him slightly of less peaceful times. "You're going to get drunk tonight, aren't you?" America said slowly, looking up at him.  
  
"Why?" England retorted. "Do you intend to stop me?"  
  
"No..." America shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Let me drink with you."


	5. Chapter 5

After dinner they headed to a local pub.  
  
America had shown interest in drinking with him, so by all means why not let the boy have his go? He was always a bit too staunch about liquor, in England's opinion. Who the hell in their right mind would think it would be acceptable to send humans off to war, but god forbid they wet their lips at the end of the night.  
  
Still, he wasn't here to talk politics, he was here to drown his whirring thoughts in lager.  
  
The establishment they picked was just starting to get busy for the night but there was still plenty of room and they found a table in the corner that gave them just enough space that only the nearest of eavesdroppers would catch the idle chatter of the two nations.  
  
His blood was already humming slightly from the two glasses of wine with dinner, but that luring feeling was nothing compared to how much he could  _really_  drink if he set his mind to it. And America was with him. All things told, this was something of a rarity and he sort of fancied it a special occasion.  
  
"Order whatever you want!" He told him from over the table, feeling generous. America had insisted on paying for their dinner, so it was only right that he return the favor lest he be in his debt. "It's on me."  
  
"Think you can afford that?" The other nation smirked at him, as though in challenge, but before he could explore it further the younger nation's expression smoothed into something else... something  _unreadable_  and he found that he really  _didn't_  want to find out whatever  _that_  was.  
  
"Of course I can!" He barked back simply. When a server came round he didn't even need to ask what was on tap, ordering a regular favourite and sitting back as America made his selection. Soon enough they had their drinks and the bill was put on England's tab.  
  
One drink, two.  
  
Four drinks and a few.  
  
England was really beginning to feel it now. His tolerance wasn't low, by no means, but he could get quite some distance on a few pints alone and coupled with the wine from earlier, which wasn't actually the smartest of ideas, he felt quite thoroughly soaked.  
  
Luckily America looked a little disheveled as well, face a pleasant flush and hair tousled in the manner it could only be from the way the other nation would unconsciously run his hand trough it.  
  
The string between them was a bright, glittering red, but for the moment it didn't bother England, despite how very noticeable it was. He couldn't forget about it--it glimmered and moved with their every action--but all in all it wasn't as gloomy a sight as it normally was.  
  
"So-- so then I was like, 'Canada,  _dude_ , your women's hockey team isn't fair! Are you sure they're not men!?' and that's why at the last meeting I had that black eye, y'know, because fuck, man, if he isn't batshit about goddamn hockey."  
  
England hummed, amusement flickering around in his brain like candlelight. He had noticed the bruising under the nation's eye at that conference just a few months ago, but for whatever reason he had never inquired into it before. "You should respect your brother more. He works hard." He said, lightly defending the poor boy's honour.  
  
" _Psshh_ \--," America waved a dismissive hand. "You just say that b'cause you like him more 'n me and he's always such a damn goody-two shoes around you. You don' know Canada until you get in a fist fight with him, I tell you what. He's a fucking evil little prick and he'll pull your hair like a sissy."  
  
There was too much here for England's inebriated mind to parse so he settled on an indignant, "Well he's polite and kind if you  _treat him as such,_ so maybe you're just foul."  
  
America pouted. "Nah, he's just a daddy's boy or something. Pretty sure he'd suck your cock if you asked 'im too."  
  
England felt anger, swift and burning. "Just because he didn't  _start a war with me_  does not mean he doesn't have his own agency, you petulant child!"   
  
America looked completely unphased by this announcement, rolling his shoulders. "Sure,  _sure_. I'd like to see you look me in the eye and tell me you've never slept with Canada." And soon piercing blue eyes were watching him expectantly.  
  
For all the alcohol in his system, England faltered. "I- I..."  
  
It was true.  
  
It had been one time.  
  
It hadn't meant anything.  
  
"I already  _know_. He told me, moron." America said leaning back in his chair. "I thought you were the  _erotic ambassador_  but you're all red like a virgin..." The words were barbed and heated for reasons England couldn't fathom. This felt less like a jab and more like a...  
  
A confrontation.  
  
"So? What matter is it to you with whom I've slept? We're nations. It's bound to happen." He said defensively. He had somewhat regretted the stint with Canada but that had been over a hundred years ago...  
  
It really was truly buried in the past, as far as matters go.  
  
So then why was it being brought up now?  
  
America made a irritated noise in his throat, shifting forward to lean on the table. "So Canada's good enough for you, but not me?" England's eyes widened but the nation before him continued before he could speak, "You apparently sleep around all you like but you've hardly glanced my way. Don't tell me you still think of me as a little kid, England. This is some horse shit."  
  
"What the hell are you going on abou--," But he never got to finish that sentence as America cut him off.  
  
"Stop being an idiot." The younger nation said, standing suddenly.   
  
A hand shot out and grabbed England's collar, hoisting him to his feet, and for a short second he was certain the other's fist would meet his face.  
  
No, instead...  
  
America's lips were on his as he was pulled half onto the table, as though the other nation were trying to kiss the very life out of him.


	6. Chapter 6

This kiss had been sudden-- _jarring_ \--and England froze as he felt those feverish lips do their best to ravish him. Alcohol made his senses slow and stupid, but the electric shock and simmering anger he felt slipped away like water through cupped hands. He was never very smart when inebriated, so against all better judgement he found himself kissing _back_ and then there was tongue and teeth and arousal and he felt a rush as desire started to wash over him.  
  
And then America pulled away, breathless, and he suddenly felt a slight chill from lack of contact. In his dizzied state he saw the string bend and gleam as the other blond ran a hand through his hair, the color a deep, ruby red in the low pub light.  
  
America seemed to collect himself, a husky laugh on his lips. "Well, fuck..." He murmured. England didn't know what that meant, but suddenly bright blues were on him, a glimmer of mischief in them. "We should probably get back. I have a feeling you're gonna be pissed at me tomorrow."  
  
"I'm pissed now." England said, but he meant the English use of the word, not the American, and somehow the other nation picked up on that as he nodded.  
  
"Yeah, but I expected you'd get wasted."  
  
England pouted at him but America only snickered and dragged him out of the pub by his wrist, those large, thick fingers gripping it loosely. For just a moment he wondered how those might feel in his arse...  
  
... Yes, it was a good idea that he not drink anymore, he conceded.  
  
The cool night air met them, pressing in on their bodies and seeping down to the bone. America tugged him closer as he hailed a cab and England mused that he looked one second away from simply giving him his coat with how chivalrous he was keen on being.  
  
And then America shrugged off the jacket and, indeed, draped it over him, and England marveled at this silently.  
  
Apparently the lack of conversation bothered the taller nation as, once they were settled in the cab, he gave England some kind of look that the island nation couldn't read. "So... you're not mad?"  
  
Normally England would have considered his answer more carefully, but in the moment there was a pleasant slosh of alcohol in his system so he simply said, "No. Why would I be?"  
  
America raised a brow, looking dubious. "B'cause I kind o' ate your face in there."  
  
England raised a hand to his chin but the sleeve of the large jacket draped long past his fingers. "You expressed interest in devouring me whole." He pointed out, amused that everything about America seemed to be about consumption.  
  
The other nation's ears were beginning to turn red, a telltale sign that he was truly embarrassed. It had been a cute trait when he was young and it had lost none of its charm over the years. "T- that's--,"  
  
"It's fine." England said, his heart beating quickly like a hummingbird's wing. He was nervous, but alcohol made his doubt and concern evaporate. No, the only thing that existed was the lingering feeling of America's lips on his. He wanted to experience that again. "I'll sleep with you." Alcohol or no, however, such bold words made a pang spring to life in his chest, but he soldiered on, "If you had wanted to so badly, you had only to ask. I had no idea."  
  
America was looking at him, expression entirely unreadable in the dark cab. Occasionally a stream of light from the street lamps would illuminate his face, but otherwise he could only imagine he was thinking it over.  
  
"I... dunno." America finally said.  
  
England hummed but let the silence linger.  
  
It bothered America so. "Do you... wanna do somethin' like that with me?"  
  
"Yes." The word had come to his lips too quickly and England looked away, feeling a creeping rise of shame and embarrassment. "I- I mean if-- well, if you wanted... to... there's no harm, I suppose." He amended poorly. The damage was already done.  
  
He shifted in his seat, the soft, well-loved lining of America's coat keeping him warm as he contemplated their situation.  
  
"I guess we can..." America finally said, sounding a touch nervous which was truly endearing.  
  
It was odd to be making an agreement to have sex like this. Normally alcohol resulted in one of those fiery, spur-of-the-moment affairs that he sorely regretted later, but never had he had such a thought out and meaningful discussion about it beforehand. He was fairly certain, were this anyone else, he would have declined.  
  
He really didn't want to consider what that might mean.  
  
The cab stopped and they paid their fare, stumbling out onto the walk outside his home. The car had been left somewhere near the pub, but he hardly cared if he received a ticket right now. Driving there had been foolish considering that driving home was out of the question.  
  
America was the first to make for the house, so he followed after and unlocked it with fumbling fingers. Once inside, America pushed the door shut hastily and then England found himself pressed back flush against the wall as he was kissed again, this time with a slower, more deliberate pace that made his entire head swim and his chest fill with fluff.   
  
England felt light and giddy and he let his hands come up to embed themselves in that luxurious head of hair, each lock like silk upon his fingers.  
  
A pause for breath had the other nation murmuring and England's ears pricked as that delicious mouth muttered, "God England, I've wanted-- for such a long time..."  
  
It made a painfully breathless feeling envelope him, " _Alfred_..."  
  
There was one small moment of clarity there as he realized what was transpiring between them. It was a light in the darkness of his drunken stupor-- a revelation. America wanted him and he America. There was more there than met the eye.  
  
And then it was whisked away as those lips came down on his again with a desperate sort of urgency that all hope was lost that he'd remember any of that realization in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

The two stumbled clumsily up the stairs of his home, but America's grip on him was firm so, somehow, they made it to the bedroom. Before he had a chance to think, England was pressed down onto the bed, America's lips on his, and he felt breathless and giddy as they squirmed their way up onto the mattress, the other nation half-straddling him.  
  
America's coat was shrugged off, but pinned under his back, and the nation it belonged to was prying loose the buttons on his shirt with less-than-nimble fingers. Eventually it seemed the larger nation simply gave up and with a tug the fabric popped free  
  
England looked up at him, annoyed. "I rather liked tha' shirt..." He protested.  
  
"Mmm, I like you bett'r with't 't." America slurred, biting the side of his neck.   
  
England keened softly. "Kinky..."  
  
"Issn' that y'r thing?"  
  
A huff. "Hardly."  
  
"You liked it, though?"  
  
England hummed noncommittally so America nipped at the expanse of skin again. The soft whine he exhaled made the other nation's lips curl.  
  
"You  _do_..."  
  
"Belt it."  
  
"Yeah, y'r wearin' a belt. Gotta get rid o' that..." America said, hands suddenly moving to article as he undid the metal clasp. And then he tugged at England's trousers until they were down to his knees, nearly taking his underwear off with them.   
  
The sudden cold made the English nation hiss, but the America was palming at his growing erection and he found all of his complaints cut off.  
  
Leaning against him, America started on his own clothing, yanking off the shirt and then the pants as if sparing time to do so properly would mean England would reconsider and leave. Then they were suddenly pressed together, America kicking off his shoes as England toed free his own.  
  
Soon enough, they were  _actually naked_.  
  
Sprawled back on the bed, the only clothing remaining being America's jack which lay beneath him, England watched as the other nation looked him over before exhaling a needy breath of air. "Fuck."  
  
"Aren't we?" England quipped wryly.  
  
America smirked. "No, I mean-- jus' look at you."  
  
Insecurity. "What  _about_  me?"  
  
That face smiled, blue eyes lighting up. "Y'r gorgeous, babe."  
  
A roll of eyes. "Liquor talking."  
  
America frowned, lying down practically on top of him as he kissed at his face. And then his neck. And then his collarbone. And then even the little scar on his chest. "No, you are." He insisted.  
  
England didn't believe him, but he wasn't protesting it. Bickering with a drunken man was a losing battle. "You're a sweet talker..." He said instead.  
  
"Maybe." America mused. Yet then the larger nation's hand was gripping his arse and England exhaled a pleased noise because  _this_  was more along what he had expected.  
  
"There's lube in the side table drawer."  
  
America didn't even ask, just leaned over and extracted the vial of liquid from exactly where England had said it'd be. He put some of it on his fingers and worked it warm. Leaning down, he kissed England  _hard_  just as he inserted the first finger.  
  
England moaned softly, the suddenness of the action making his already inebriated head spin, but it seemed the other nation was intent on not allowing him up for air as that finger started to fuck him.  
  
His legs twitched apart before he could even stop them as he felt the slicked glide of America's digit working him looser. And then, suddenly, there was a second finger and he had to extract himself from the kiss to gasp for air, a moan curling high on his lips.  
  
God, how long had it been since he was last touched like this? He couldn't even recall...  
  
And then there was suddenly a third finger and those deft fingers were teasing him-- _prodding_  him--exploring his insides--  
  
And suddenly lights broke out in England's eyes as his back arched.  
  
"Ha. Found it..."  
  
"Fff-- _uua_..." He slurred, shoulders bunching as he gripped the bedspread.   
  
America was kissing his neck again and then he jabbed that delicate bundle of nerves inside of him just as his teeth sank down into the tender swath of flesh.  
  
England cried out, pain and pleasure dancing and mingling together like an exotic cocktail, and he was reeling as those fingers extracted themselves and something else took their place.  
  
" _I can't wait any longer_..." America breathed, fingers suddenly gripping his thighs as he eased into him. It was slow, steady slide as his shaft slid past that ring of muscle, and England tried to relax even as his head tipped back in silent appraisal.   
  
He hadn't gotten a good look at the other nation's cock, but, fuck all, it  _felt_  big.  
  
Once encompassed up to the hilt, everything spiraled into chaos. America was kissing him, one hand clutching his thigh while the other twisted and teased his nipple, England's hands preoccupied with digging themselves into the other nation's hair. And, despite the gradual burn of it all, they were rocking their hips together, America's a casual roll as England jerked back with eager, demanding hips.  
  
They were entangled and drunk, kisses turning wet and messy as they grabbed at each other, neither saying anything entirely coherent. Everything was whines and moans and panted half-words that trailed off, drowned out by the sound of flesh meeting slick flesh.  
  
"Fuck-- England, I--,"  
  
America's hands were all over him, but one suddenly gripped his cock in a loose hold, pumping it roughly, and, despite how he normally disliked that sort of roughness, England couldn't help but find the slightly calloused fingers erotic as they stroked him through, a mangled moan on his lips as he came.  
  
Through hazy vision he saw the nation grin at a semen-slicked hand, licking it clean as he stared down at England with piercing, dark eyes. That sight would be burned into the island nation's mind for all eternity.  
  
And then that hand gripped his other thigh as America thrust into him.  
  
"You'r so fucking beautiful--," The nation over him hissed as he reeled from the merciless fucking. "Moan for me-- I wanna hear your voice--,"  
  
England was moaning now, but not because America had asked him to-- merely a side effect of his prostate being roughly jarred by the American's girth.  
  
"More--,"  
  
The English nation mewled as America leaned down to bite his lobe.  
  
" _I wanna hear more_ \--," He breathed right into his ear.  
  
"I- I," England tossed his head back, struggling for words. "I can't c- control--  _ahh_ \--,"  
  
"You'r so cute..."  
  
"I-- wha--?" He cut himself off as a moan broke from his lips. America's pace had sped up to a rough, demanding piston and he felt his entire body move with every thrust as the nation above him panted with exertion.  
  
"Fuck-- say my name--  _please_ \--,"  
  
"America." England breathed, obeying the demand because honestly he couldn't think anymore and he would say anything while he was being fucked so thoroughly as this. "Oh god,  _America_ \--,"  
  
And with that, America came, a sudden bundling tension as he drove into him harder for a few motions before pressing in tight, as though his body had to ensure that England's got every last drop of seed.  
  
England twitched and gasped as he felt a heated feeling inside of him, liquid coating his insides as America bent over him.  
  
They shared no further words that night as, messy and sated, they ended up asleep in each other's arms, alcohol and exhaustion whisking them away.  
  
The red string glimmered brightly, the line short between their clasped hands.


	8. Chapter 8

Morning was a fuzzy fade into existence followed by a crashing of pain as the gentle peace of sleep slipped free of England, replaced only by the hollow pounding in his skull. He groaned, feeling a shot of soreness as he moved, the lingering comfort of rest escaping him. He was warm and there was a weight resting over him and, hungover or not, it was obvious what that was.  
  
It just wasn't obvious, at the moment,  _who_.  
  
His eyes wary slits as he peered out into the daylight of the room, the sudden onslaught on brightness making his headache spike as he groaned. The body beside his own shifted, a soft, breathy noise exhaled from those dreaming lips.  
  
 _He recognized that voice_.  
  
England was suddenly jerked fully awake, no amount of pain or illness able to prevent him from twisting his head to confirm his suspicions, America's sleeping face all the answer he needed. He sat up, not mindful of the body beside him, a frantic, desperate whirring of thoughts buzzing about and making it hard to  _focus_. He clambered out of bed, stumbled slightly, and then felt a sudden surge of nausea.  
  
Within a minute he was on his knees in front of the toilet, purging the contents of his stomach into the pristine bowl as his body produced a nice, cold sweat as if to punctuate his illness.  
  
It startled him when he felt the soft feeling of a palm on his back, the warmth stroking his shoulder blades and spine as he vomited, silent. After one last choked heave he lingered there, afraid that if he were to move the hand would ghost away into nothingness, all just some elaborate and wonderful dream.  
  
The red string glimmered, so fine and bright that he would have hesitated to call it a product of his sight were he to not know better.  
  
And then a soft laugh filled the empty space near his ears. "You alright? I knew it was a bad idea to let you drink so much..."  
  
This time the choked feeling that surged up in England had nothing to do with the unsteadiness of his stomach. "America..." He murmured, his whispered voice an almost-question.  
  
The nation beside him patted his back lightly. "C'mon, let's get you out of here-- unless you think you need more time?"  
  
"No." England shook his head and then regretted it, but he flushed the toilet anyway, rising to his feet in order to clean out his mouth with toothpaste and mouthwash. In the mirror he could see America standing behind him like some kind of guardian angel, but he didn't let his eyes linger on him as they both stood there, naked as the day they were so-called born.  
  
The silence stretched and lingered, like a weight, but it seemed neither of them wanted to break it for fear of what that might mean. Words and sentences strung together to describe the act that they had just participated in and the twinges of pain in England's backside.  
  
Once his mouth was properly cleaned, he exited the room and America trailed after. If it weren't for the aching in his skull, he might have thought it cute, but for the moment it simply worked at his nerves.  
  
Before he could spit forth some biting remark about lost puppies, the other nation spoke:  
  
"England, about last night..."  
  
He felt himself freeze, half leaning into his closet to pull free a robe.  
  
The lack of response ushered the other nation on, albeit hesitantly. "Do you regret it?"  
  
Blinking, he tugged the robe from its hanger, pulling it on and adjusting it as he wrapped the fabric around himself. Only once he had the cord at his waist properly situated did he turned to face America. "Do you?"  
  
"I asked you first."  
  
"So you did." His mind was soaked in the rattling pangs of a hangover, but this subject was too important to be discouraged by something so trivial.  
  
The red line between them shimmered.  
  
"... I can't find reason to regret it." He said honestly, crossing his arms as he stared at the floor. "Sex is as natural for us as it is for humans."  
  
America sighed, the noise sounding faintly exasperated, but England didn't want to know what that meant.  
  
"Do  _you_  regret it?" He asked in turn, this time expecting an answer.  
  
There was silence for a moment before, "No, I don't."  
  
England hummed lightly, the crossed arms tightening around himself further as he said, "Good. That's... good."  
  
"Would you regret it if we did it again?"  
  
That startled him slightly and this time England  _did_  look up, not surprised to find America staring down intently at the carpet. After a moment, he found words again, "No... I suppose I wouldn't." He said slowly, heart beating in his chest with an eager hop.  
  
"So, can we? Do it again, I mean?"  
  
England's brow met his hairline. " _Now?_ " He balked, feeling vaguely scandalized. "I'll have you know that, nation or not, whatever the hell you put in my arse last night was no small venture and I  _do_  need  _some_  recovery time and if you think that I'm just some free go now, then you're going to be sorely disappointed because I expect at least the courtesy of--," and then, "Are you  _laughing_  at me?"  
  
America's hand was over his mouth, shoulders shaking, but at the rise in England's pitch it seemed he lost the will to hide his mirth. A sharp exhalation of breath and he was doubled over, naked, and completely beside himself.  
  
England really had no idea how to respond to that but, somehow, the honest, open sound of happiness that fell from those lips made a strange weight lift from his chest and so he simply stood there and let him laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

America insisted on buying him breakfast.  
  
It was a kind gesture, certainly, but one that England had quite a while to contemplate as he showered off the residue of the night before, the hot steam easing some of the pain in his muscles. After, he dressed in a light shirt and trousers, itching for some tea.  
  
It seemed he was in the worse state of the two of them, but that mattered very little as they were taking a cab into town, the car abandoned where it had been parked. When they located it, it appeared he hadn't gotten a ticket after all, which was fortunate.  
  
They ended up at a small cafe tucked away in a quiet part of the city. It surprised him that America hadn't insisted on McDonald's, but he wasn't complaining as he settled in at a table near the window with his tea and scone, watching pedestrians meander by.  
  
A small packet was dropped in front of him and England frowned lightly at it as America slid into the seat across from him.  
  
"For your head." The other nation explained.  
  
England ran a finger over the plastic. "You shouldn't take pain killers after drinking-- it tries your liver."  
  
"We're nations. You'll be fine."  
  
That much was true. Finding the throbbing in his skull rather uncomfortable, he took one of the pills, discretely hoping it would do something about the pain that occasionally shot up his spine. He couldn't remember much of last night, but whatever America had done, it had been  _rough_.  
  
Or, perhaps, he was just well-endowed. England wasn't sure. The memory was a fog.  
  
America was watching him, expression dazed and dreamy, so he took the opportunity to flick his nose, making the other man recoil. "What was that for?"  
  
"For looking like an idiot."  
  
A snuff noise was exhaled from the other nation's nose, but the annoyance faded away quickly.  
  
In the silence, England couldn't help but marvel at his hand, twisting the appendage as he watched the line between them glimmer. He was so focused on the bright red glow that he jumped when America's hand came into his field of few, fingers brushing his own, and he peered up at the other nation with befuddlement.  
  
"You... do that a lot." America said, brow furrowing. "Is something wrong with your hand? Does it hurt?"  
  
England felt breathless, those soft finger pads pressing against his skin. He didn't dare move, as though they'd flit away like a butterfly. "It... doesn't hurt." He said slowly.  
  
"Then why...?"  
  
It was idiotic, but as he looked at him, sky blue searching his own green, he felt strange-- as if America  _knew_.  
  
That was impossible, however. America had made his stance on magic very clear in the past-- it wasn't real. End of discussion.  
  
Yet it was. England's gaze returned to the string, short between them, and he felt his heart beating like a hummingbird's wing.  
  
For the first time in a long time he thought:  
  
Maybe the string isn't wrong after all?  
  
It was stupid, but that idea pressed itself into him with such a suddenness that he felt winded. After months--no,  _years_ \--of believing it to be wrong, he'd thought hope was beyond him, but now it was crashing down like a wave and he sucked in a sudden breath, surprised to hear it sound like a whine.  
  
"Shit-- England, what's wrong!?"  
  
He jerked his head up to look at America, blinking, but as the nation leaned in close he realized the sudden blurred quality of the world around him and, at the realization that he was crying, everything seemed to shatter.  
  
He was hungover and tired and sore and,  _dear lord_ , he had been  _so lonely_  and maybe-- _maybe_ \--he could have this happiness and how on earth could that even be possible but it was all just so simple and he could touch it if he wanted to-- he could touch America and he could  _have_  him and it would all be  _real_ \--  
  
When the first sob broke, he heard the scrape of a metal chair and then hands were tugging him to lean against a broad chest, one foreign palm pressing his cheek to a shoulder while the other rubbed lightly at his back.   
  
England just let it all happen, crying into the fabric of the other nation's shirt, oblivious to anything other than the arms around him and the gentle murmurs of, "It's okay, England. It's alright..."


	10. Chapter 10

Things were something of a blur after that.  
  
England wasn't entirely sure how, but they eventually ended up back at his quaint, London home and he was dragged inside by a fussing America who kept asking him if he felt alright or if he wanted anything, to which England could only shake his head, lost deep in his own thoughts.  
  
The other nation seemed antsy, unwilling to leave him alone even if only for a moment, as though he might literally crumble into a thousand pieces, but England was too tired to fight it.  
  
Or, rather, he was too entranced by his own thoughts to care to push him away, letting him get away with hands on his shoulder, soft rubbings at his back, and bodily closeness without so much as a single, biting word.  
  
No, every act made his heart balloon, as though it were being inflated. He felt tired and pained and yet there was this strange sort of euphoria flooding through him that was  _so very difficult_  to grasp.  
  
Hope. Giddiness. It was exploding through him, filling his pores and making his body hum and his throat tighten. It was so utterly overwhelming, this onslaught of  _feeling_ , that it rendered him completely helpless to America's concerns.  
  
Eventually the other nation led him to the sofa in the living room, gripping his shoulders as he looked pleadingly into his eyes. "C'mon England. Say  _something_. You're freaking me out here, alright--?"  
  
He felt so overwhelmed. What on earth could he say?  
  
"Are you mad? Is this about last night?" There was a pitch of guilt in his tone-- a tremor of fear, as though America were crumbling into shards of glass too. "I'm sorry, I just thought..."  
  
Silence.  
  
"England...?" And then, " _Arthur?_ "  
  
England glanced up at him, mute but surprised. America looked visibly relieved.  
  
"There you are." A hand came up to brush at his cheek, as though wiping away tears although those had long since dried. The gesture felt the same either way. He wondered if America felt that way too, because the pad of his thumb was just stroking the area under his eye softly, making his squint. "Say something?" A pause. "Please? For me?"  
  
He took a breath, working his lips for a moment, "I... don't know what you want me to say..."  
  
America pressed his forehead to England's, making the smaller nation's head swim with fluff. "Anything. Yell at me. Tell me I'm an idiot. Just anything-- I was so worried-- you just started crying suddenly and then you wouldn't say  _anything_. You looked like you weren't even  _there_ , I--," America cut himself off, a flush skittering across his face. "I guess I... It was just such a  _scare_..."  
  
The red string was bright, the color of the blood that washed their veins and made them alive.  
  
The color of his prized roses.  
  
He'd never seen it brighter.  
  
Internally he leaned into the feeling of hope, proverbial hands grasping it hesitantly.  
  
It was as if a spell had broken and he exhaled, feeling the numbness fade as he shook his head, the pain killers having dulled his aches. "I just needed to think." He muttered, embarrassed now.  
  
America made a noise that sounded like disbelief, but that was swept away as the other nation dipped forward and pulled him into a hug. It was awkward and brief and England had barely time to register it before it was over, but it was a hug nonetheless and one given to him out of pure relief.  
  
And then the larger nation ruffled his hair, laughing fondly.  
  
"You're such a handful, England." He said.  
  
Indignance rose to the front, "Says the one who showed up unannounced and made himself at home."  
  
"I had to." America said, apparently not thinking that through as he flushed slightly and tipped his gaze away.  
  
"Why?" England questioned, studying him.  
  
America bit his lip, hesitating. And then he smiled awkwardly at him. "I wanted... to be your hero..."  
  
England stared at him, his own expression softening slightly. He didn't know what to say to that. He dare not ask  _why_.  
  
"You should make tea." America said suddenly.  
  
He blinked at such a sudden announcement, "I really don't think now is the time--,"  
  
"Just," America smiled at him and he felt himself utterly charmed, "believe me. You should make tea."  
  
"Well, alright..." England said slowly, rising from the sofa. He cast a final glance at the other nation before exiting the room and moving down the hall towards his kitchen.  
  
He put the kettle on idly, lost in thought as he moved to grab a tea cup from the cupboard...  
  
And then he saw it.  
  
The vase of lilacs on the windowsill had been rearranged slightly, but what really caught his eye was the sight of one of his very own roses tucked neatly into the fold, a gorgeous bloom that he normally would have been livid at America for cutting.  
  
A red, red rose.  
  
Lilacs.  
  
He dropped his cup, the porcelain clattering to the tile, already forgotten.  
  
 _America knew the meaning of the flowers._  
  
Everything came sharply into perspective, as though he had been suddenly placed upright after being upside down. Everything suddenly made  _sense_.  
  
The git had been trying to tell him things.  
  
For years.  
  
With a subtlety even England hadn't suspected him capable of.  
  
Lilacs...  _first love_.  
  
Red roses....  _passionate love_.  
  
As he heard footsteps approaching him from behind, he simply let his chin drop to his chest in shame. "I... am an idiot."  
  
The soft sound of laughter behind him was like a balm, warm and inviting and sweet.  
  
  
  
The damned thread was right after all, wasn't it?


End file.
